


Silence

by Anonymous



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 'literally what is the point of catholicism, (briefly) - Freeform, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Gags, I blame Grabmotte, Light Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Roman Catholicism, if you can't confuse the erotic and the divine sometimes'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:30:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8036923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "Be quiet, or you'll be gagged."





	Silence

Richelieu grins at the sound of footsteps behind him, revelling in the distinct  _lack_  of anticipation. He knows exactly what is going to happen tonight. Asked for most of it, even. 

Any person who spends longer than an instant in the presence of the First Minister of France would most likely describe him as ‘controlling’. The more intelligent ones might, after some consideration, wonder why he has chosen to place himself at the mercy of an entire country, in a position which forces him to deal with unexpected problems almost constantly. 

Richelieu has a plan. He’s hardly keeping it secret - yet it seems to him that some people (naming no names, of course) take a perverse delight in thwarting his plans. 

His life contains too many surprises, and too little control. 

_Though,_ Richelieu reminds himself as familiar hands settle on his shoulders, _some of those surprises were not so bad._  

“Are you sure?” Treville asks.

And Richelieu smirks, and says “My dear Captain, I am quite certain.” 

He has not anticipated. He has  _waited,_ and there is most certainly a difference, as any soldier who has been on the wrong side of an ambush will attest. The later, Richelieu believes, is always preferable. 

So it is not tension that thrums under his skin at the touch of leather-gloved fingers on his neck, but eagerness. Undoubtedly, most of the physical symptoms are similar; the hitch in his breathing he does not try to conceal, nor the quiet gasp as Treville’s fingers begin to trace patterns at the nape of his neck. 

The Captain has always had a fondness for Richelieu’s hair. If Richelieu lets him, by the end of this evening Treville’s hands will be buried in his curls. 

Richelieu will probably allow it. If Treville ever asked, (which he will not because they have known each other for too long not to know that questions such as these are unwelcome), Richelieu would probably admit that he enjoys the attention as much, if not more than Treville enjoys bestowing it. 

“We don’t have to do this,” Treville is saying.

Richelieu rolls his eyes. “Let us look at the evidence, Captain,” he says. “I was the one to suggest this. It is something I want, that I believe you are willing to provide. Unless...” he trails off, frowning unhappily at the floor as an unpleasant thought strikes him, “...you have changed your mind?” 

That would be... regrettable. Not because he believes Treville would think any less of him for his desires (though a small voice inside his head is currently crying just that), not because of the affect this refusal might have on the delicate balance of power between them (though that is a factor), but because he had genuinely wanted this. 

Why would Treville refuse him? Is it the act, or the man who requested it that he objects to? Despite himself, tendrils of shame begin to creep into his mind.  

“No, no; of course I haven’t,” Treville says quickly. Richelieu pushes himself up to stand, turning around to face Treville, who puts him out of his misery by kissing him. 

  

 

Back before this but after Treville’s musketeers had come to dispose of poor, foolish Luca (who had succeeded in manipulating him, so what does that make Richelieu?), Richelieu had kissed Treville and pushed him into a corner, intending to have his way with him. 

Treville had sunk down to his knees and set to work on Richelieu’s cock. Within seconds Richelieu was panting, moaning, babbling about the glorious sensations and Treville’s clever mouth, when Treville pulled away. 

“Be quiet,” he said, smirking, "or you’ll be gagged.”  

It was the look on Treville’s face, more than anything else, that made Richelieu pause, and replay that last sentence in his head; there was a hint of a challenge there, in the sharp hint of his teeth, and the gleam in his eyes. Was Treville suggesting... that he might... that  _Richelieu_  might... and in the few seconds that followed, Richelieu’s instincts grabbed hold of his overactive brain and brought it to a screeching halt, screaming a definite  _yes!_

“Alright,” Richelieu said, chest heaving, and Treville looked up sharply, uncharacteristically taken aback, but undeniably thrilled. 

  

 

It has taken them days to find the right time, but now they are here, and they are ready, and Richelieu wants all he was promised.  

From his pocket, Treville draws out a plain handkerchief, then nods towards the kneeler. Richelieu undresses quickly, before kneeling. 

The next thing Richelieu knows, Treville has gone to his knees behind him. He fits the rope of cloth between Richelieu’s teeth, and ties the ends together at the nape of his neck. Finally, Treville cups Richelieu’s face with one hand, his thumb stroking just above the gag. The sensation of the leather against his skin reminds Richelieu abruptly that while he has disrobed entirely, Treville is still clothed.  

Then Treville removes his gloves, discards them along with his jacket and shirt, and his hands are warm, rough; from countless powder burns, hard labour, and sword fighting. He presses a soft kiss to Richelieu’s throat as he reaches down to take hold of his cock, making Richelieu shiver and open his thighs. He allows his head to fall back against Treville’s shoulder, moaning helplessly, hopelessly.  

It is as though the inability to kiss Richelieu on the mouth has instilled the desire in Treville to make up for it elsewhere on Richelieu’s body; he kisses every inch of skin he can reach. First, as he begins to move, alternating his strokes before finally falling into a familiar rhythm, Treville kisses the back of Richelieu’s neck, then the spot beneath his ear. As one hand abandons Richelieu’s cock to drift lower, past the perineum to rest lightly against his entrance, Treville’s free hand finds Richelieu’s; he kisses each of Richelieu’s fingers reverently. 

Treville knows Richelieu too well to be surprised by the moan he makes as he pushed the first finger in; the only pain this brings is a dull ache, which tells Richelieu that Treville must have brought lubrication with him, and applied it to his fingers whilst he was distracting Richelieu with his kisses. 

Treville pulls him open, coaxing Richelieu to open his thighs wider. Treville’s warm fingers are a sharp contrast to the cool air, and Richelieu tries to get more, to sink down, to take Treville’s fingers completely. Unfortunately Treville’s arm tightens around his waist, preventing him from taking his pleasure.  

Richelieu growls through the gag, clinging to the kneeler, then almost cries out as Treville slide the finger almost entirely out and fully in again, brushing against his prostate with unerring precision. After a few more strokes, Treville inserts a second finger, making Richelieu bite down savagely on the gag, moaning as Treville continues with his apparent resolution to drive Richelieu mad with his fingers.  

With this, as with everything, Richelieu is unable to force Treville to do anything; must kneel there as Treville holds him in place and fucks him with his fingers, unable to plead, beg for more.  

Treville is stroking deep inside him and opening him, and Richelieu is yielding, had already yielded. When Treville has finally satisfied himself, and pants, with three fingers up Richelieu’s arse, “are you ready?”, Richelieu cannot help his eager moan, nor his excited shiver.    

“Yes,” his words might be muffled by the meaning comes across perfectly. “Now,  _please_.”   

Richelieu braces himself against the sloping shelf of the kneeler as Treville withdraws for a moment. He can hear the muffled thud that is undoubtedly the sound of Treville’s breeches falling to the floor, and moans again as Treville returns, sinking his hands into Richelieu’s curls and kissing his forehead briefly before sinking to his knees behind Richelieu.  

_This is really happening_ , Richelieu thinks. He’s going to fuck his lover against a prayer desk. Quite vigorously, if Richelieu has anything to do with it. 

_He that loveth not knoweth not God; for God is love._

Surely, then, this will not be the act that seals Richelieu’s fate. 

Despite all Treville’s preparation, the first thrust feels like it’s splitting him open, though his moans and whimpers are silenced by the gag. Richelieu tries to savour the memory before the second stroke goes even deeper, and then he can’t think any more because the fullness and friction are just right, and Treville is fucking him now with a measured pace, steady strokes that indicate that he could continue like this for as long as either of them require. 

He can’t seem to stay still; every movement and shift in his position lights fires of pleasure along his spine, but then Treville presses forwards, pinning him against the wooden frame of the kneeler. 

_Please,_  Richelieu tries to say,  _I need more, faster, harder._ But his words are muffled by the gag, and dissolve into a guttural moan as Treville stills, those familiar hands now holding him up and still. The next thrusts are neither faster nor harder, but they are deeper, though Richelieu had not thought that possible. 

He’s seen enough of life not to regret the whimper it draws from him; gone are the days when he hated himself for anything he perceived as weakness where Treville is concerned, and he does not miss them.   

Richelieu turns to look over his shoulder, and is delighted by what he sees; not the character Treville plays - the bluff, honest man of action - but the man. It’s a privilege and an honour, and Richelieu treasures the sight. It gives him the strength to release the death-grip one of his hands has on the wooden leg of the kneeler; he reaches back to grip Treville’s arm, urging him closer, trying to quicken his pace.   

Treville pulls away suddenly, and Richelieu’s eyes fly open. His protestations are muffled by the gag, but then Treville pushes in again at a different angle, and Richelieu’s attempts to speak descend into blatant, wanton moans. And now Treville seems to have taken Richelieu’s muffled pleas to heart, because before Richelieu has time to register the change, Treville does indeed begin to thrust faster, and harder. The gag gives him the freedom to yell as loud as he wants, without alerting half the guards in the Palais Cardinal to what is going on in their master’s chambers. He can let himself go, react as he likes - perfectly and exquisitely balanced on the edge of ecstasy. 

How can a loving God condemn something that brings such incandescent joy? If Love is divine, then the man Richelieu is when he is with Treville is closer to God than the Cardinal.  

And yes, there was one other reason Richelieu asked to be gagged. One that had nothing to do with how erotic they both found the idea. 

There are words that Richelieu longs to say, but which can never be heard, and this is the perfect time. 

“I love you,” he moans, and his words are stifled by the gag in his mouth. 

Then again, “Jean, I love you,” as Treville’s body tenses, as his release pushes Richelieu over the edge, as their twitches cease.  

Treville presses a kiss to the side of his temple. A final, exhausted “love you,” Richelieu murmurs softly, as Treville reaches to untie the knot.  

**Author's Note:**

> As I said in the tags... I blame Grabmotte. 100% no doubt, it's her fault for posting [this](https://tatzelwyrm.tumblr.com/post/150177735213/this-is-a-serious-post-ok)


End file.
